


Unarmored

by wonder_boy



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Accidents and Forgiveness, Angst, Caregiver Fatigue, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Malcolm Bright Whump, Night Terrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_boy/pseuds/wonder_boy
Summary: Malcolm’s leg anxiously bounces and his hand trembles at his side while he waits for Gil to say something.-For Prompt 81: Malcolm falls asleep on Gil's sofa and has a night terror. Gil has to restrain him like Dani did in the pilot, gets hit in the process.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102





	Unarmored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mumblespin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mumblespin/gifts).



> Enjoy!

The sun’s setting on another exhausting day at the 16th precinct. Another day, another unsolved case, and another day Malcolm Bright runs himself into the ground to find their latest killer.

It’s the kind of challenge that Malcolm craves. Right now, his team is running around Manhattan to avenge some poor single mother who didn’t deserve to die, and administer justice for her son who has become an orphan overnight. He tries to play it off like this case isn’t personal, but of course, no one’s buying it.

This morning, Malcolm stumbled into work with a lag in his step. Gil spotted him coming in from across the precinct, and before he could call out his name, Gil silently watched the kid drag himself towards his office. Sure, he’s physically put together like usual but Gil’s had enough experience spotting the cracks from miles away.

The kid looks _exhausted._ Throughout the entire day, Gil takes mental notes of every shake, shudder, and flinch Malcolm exhibits from his overview of evidence on the case board to the mere call of his name.

When sundown ascends and the street lights brighten the Manhattan sky, Gil finds an opportunity in the monotony of evening paperwork.

The time nears eight. Gil’s at his desk buried in his own pile of case reports when he notices how annoying loud the air conditioning is above him. It ticks and scratches against rickety vents and dirty air filters, and eventually, the sound starts to drive Gil crazy.

He shoves the file in his hand down on his desk and drops his pen, leaning back in his chair with a long sigh. His eyes briefly slide shut as he takes a few measured breaths and allows the tension he’s carrying in his body to sink into the faux leather chair. The nagging ache at the bridge of his nose makes him pull his glasses off and discard them on the desk with the rest of his work.

Gil rubs his face in his hands when a yawn bubbles in his chest, caught in the palm of his hand. Somehow, the yawn magnifies just how achy his body has become over the years.

He doesn’t get too far into the thought when there’s a soft knock on his door. “Come in,” Gil says, sitting up in his chair.

To his surprise, it’s Malcolm.

Gil sits up straighter with worry tugging at his features as the kid stands in the doorway with a shaking hand gripping the handle like a lifeline. His eyes are downcast, shifting aimlessly as if he’s trying his hardest to stand upright but it’s a literal fight to stay awake.

“You good, Bright?” Gil carefully asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Malcolm’s head snaps up with a faint smile and nothing behind his faded blues. “I’m fine.”

The door sways under the weight of Malcolm’s body but Gil’s too busy taking in the sight of their profiler suspended on a ledge he can’t come down from. He can barely stand on his own two feet without stumbling or skipping a step that results in a close call. Everything about Malcolm screams fatigue and exhaustion.

“Is there something you wanted to talk about? A question about the case?” Gil pauses, hesitating as he props his elbows on his desk. “Or would you like to talk about what’s on your mind?”

Gil’s eyes flicker over to Malcolm’s suddenly stiff frame.

“Close the door,” Gil says, and Malcolm slowly complies.

He practically floats over to Gil’s sofa and plops down in the corner closest to the door, his body sagging as soon as it hits the fabric. Malcolm struggles to find a comfortable position, so he opts out to lean back and close his eyes with a sigh.

Gil notes his hand shaking and Malcolm doesn’t make the effort to cover it up.

Gil hesitates.

Malcolm’s body language indicates he doesn’t want to talk but he’s been in and out of it all day and the case is no longer a distraction, but a nagging reminder of his failure all those years ago. His gauge on what’s strictly business and what’s too personal always wavers depending on his mood and Gil’s constantly on his toes to avoid sticking his head where it shouldn’t be.

“You can say it,” Malcolm mumbles.

Gil’s head briefly rests on his knuckles. He debates for a movement, going through his mind to try and find the right words to say. He quickly realizes there are none, so he decides honesty is as good as it’s going to get.

“You’re not sleeping,” Gil carefully starts. “You’re not sleeping, you’re practically on your last leg, I know you’re not eating, and this case is more personal than you’re willing to admit.”

Malcolm muses behind a weak chuckle. “All very true statements.”

There’s shuffling in the room that makes Malcolm crack his eyes open, and suddenly Gil’s sitting closer than where he was just a few seconds ago. He’s leaning up against his desk with his arms folded, and a concerned expression to match. “What happened? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

With a grunt, Malcolm forces himself to sit up on the sofa but the exhaustion in his limbs pull him back down to slouch right back into the corner again. He holds his shaky hand steady with his left as he stares off to the side, consciously avoiding eye contact.

“Does it have something to do with your dad?” Gil asks.

The room grows silent. His hand trembles under his fingers with vigor, making him squeeze harder to get the shaking under control.

A part of Malcolm wants to say yes and move on without explaining because it’s _always_ about his father – it’s always about something that _he’_ s done. Another part of him wants to unscrew the top of his bottled up emotions and tell Gil just how much he’s hurting, and how much he wishes he could hold him like he used to and tell him that everything’s going to be okay.

His mind shuts the idea down very quickly. Wearing his heart on his sleeve never worked out for him and he doesn’t feel like sabotaging this small window of peace.

“When is it not about him,” Malcolm groans.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Gil quietly asks.

He immediately shakes his head. “I just need some sleep,” Malcolm admits, moving around to get comfortable on the sofa again. “Wake me up in thirty minutes, please. Or, whenever it starts getting bad.”

Gil blinks, mentally taking a step back as he watches Malcolm practically curl in on himself on the sofa. Being eager for sleep isn’t typical of him which has Gil running through every horrible scenario that could’ve happened to him at home. Then he stops when Malcolm stops moving.

“Bright?” he calls, stepping closer.

When Gil leans in over his body, he can hear the soft snores of Malcolm reverbing through his chest. He’s fast asleep on his sofa on his back with his hands tucked into the fabric and his legs slightly bent to prevent himself from falling off. Malcolm’s in a fetal position with all of the space he’s given, and his face is hidden by his hair and the back of the sofa.

It almost reminds Gil of a human pretzel, and the image that comes with that makes him laugh into his fist, stifling the volume but he’s sure that Malcolm can’t hear a single thing.

Leaving Malcolm to his much needed sleep, Gil sits back down at his desk, puts his glasses back on and picks up his pen again to resume his work. He steals a quick glance before returning to his work, letting those horrible scenarios disappear under case files and signoffs. Malcolm is sleeping, and that’s all he can ask for.

* * *

Gil comes to the realization that Malcolm sleeps like the dead. Even though he’s fast asleep across the room, there’s a sense of comfort that warms Gil’s chest knowing that he’s here with him. It’s a feeling that motivates him to get some real work done, and he combs through files and a few emails in the span of two hours.

He drives through his productive streak until he hears a faint whimper by the window. Gil checks the time to see how long he’s slept. It’s almost at the two hour mark before Malcolm starts to stir in his sleep and there aren’t any restraints to hold him down. Gil’s on high alert, so he completely stops what he’s doing and turns his chair to face Malcolm, anticipating the dread that’s about to come.

Gil’s used to this routine.

He keeps a close eye on him, watching and waiting for the signal that Malcolm’s on the verge of waking up. For a few minutes, he’s quiet against the sofa. Then, the whimpering is back in full force, startling Gil enough to get up from his chair and hover over Malcolm but keeps his distance. Gil sits on the edge by his feet in case Malcolm decides to run, or throw himself off the edge by accident.

He whimpers into the fabric like he’s in pain and squirms against the leather, untying himself from the crooked position he was sleeping in. As he shifts in his sleep, his hair flops in his face when he turns on his back with his arms still tucked into his body.

Whimpers quickly morph into long drawls of groans and cut off gasps. Malcolm’s hands are still tucked into his body across his chest and Gil wonders what’s running through his head that has him stuck in this position. When he jerks his body to the side, his hair falls from his face down to the sides and Gil can see a distressing picture of agony and glistening sweat coating his forehead.

Gil watches Malcolm’s brows crease and his expression turn sour with each passing second. His groans escalate to frightened cries and choked breaths as he struggles against the air, trying to claw his way out from under something but getting nowhere.

“No–” he moans, jerking his body away from the sofa. “Stop – _no_.”

The fear in his voice tugs at Gil’s heartstrings in the worst way possible. He gets up from his spot and kneels down by Malcolm’s side, carefully dropping down to the ground and steadies himself with his hand. He doesn’t go to wake Malcolm just yet, but he’s ready to hold him down if he needs to.

That plan quickly goes out the window because Malcolm starts to thrash around in the small space and kicks his legs with enough force to make him fall.

“Hey, kid,” Gil calls with the softest voice he can muster. “Everything’s okay, it’s just a bad dream.”

Even though Malcolm can’t hear him, it’s a habit for Gil to coax him as he tries to wake up from his horrid night terrors. He gently combs the slicked strands of hair off of his face but it he startles him by accident, and the presence of a physical body has Malcolm shaking and scrambling to get away from it.

 _“No!”_ he shouts, and his brows dip in pain as he cries out.

Gil immediately stands back up to take control of the situation, keeping Malcolm’s legs on the couch using his thighs to press against them and hovering over his body ready to take hold of his arms. As if on cue, Malcolm pushes against the air as his body twists away from Gil’s pressure, fighting a monster Gil can’t see. Without much room for his legs to move, Malcolm starts to panic and lash out into a frenzy. Short, hitched breaths grow increasingly louder until he’s hyperventilates and nearly throws himself off of the sofa in attempt to get away.

Gil lifts his leg leaning up against the couch and plants his knee on it to keep Malcolm’s movements confined to the small space. He wobbles a bit before he steadies himself on the fabric and reaches out to grab Malcolm’s flailing arms.

“Bright, you’re okay,” Gil says as he manages to get a hold of his wrists. “It’s just a bad dream. No one’s going to hurt you.”

His fight or flight response is fully triggered. Just as Gil gets one of wrists in his hand, Malcolm rips it from his grasp and starts _swinging_. Malcolm squeezes his eyes even tighter with his fists in the air, waving them around with a heavy force behind them and no aim.

One of Malcolm’s fists collide with Gil’s forearm with enough strength to raise concern, and Gil thinks he has reached the part where his restraints would come in handy. “Bright, stop,” Gil calls to him. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be fine, kid. It’s all just a really bad dream.”

Malcolm keeps twisting his body away from Gil until Gil finally gives him and puts all of his weight forward, snatches Malcolm’s wrists in the air and pins them against his chest but not hard enough to restrict his breathing.

Malcolm continues to struggle against Gil.

Now that he’s been subdued, Gil expects this to come to a head and the pressure would force him to relax. Instead, it does the exact opposite.

“Stop!” Malcolm cries out, and Gil freezes.

Gil’s heart drops to his stomach, and he begins to ease his grip on Malcolm.

He’s _hurting_ him.

His grip weakens on Malcolm’s wrists as Malcolm fights to get out of the hold he’s been put in, agitated and frightened by the hands that grab at him as he tries to get away. Gil mumbles an apology under his breath, watching Malcolm shake harder than before as he slowly lets go of him.

It’s a mistake, because the second Malcolm’s arms go free and Gil leans in a little too close, Malcolm’s hands swing wildly in his face, and without really paying attention, one of Malcolm’s fists connect right under Gil’s left eye with a sickening crack.

The pain in his hand and the shout from Gil is enough to startle him awake. Immediately, Malcolm clutches his hand against his chest, wheezing and gasping for air while his body shakes from the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His heart pounds in his ears, blood rushing as his head swirls and his stomach rolls from the perpetual fear playing out in the farthest corners of his mind as if he were still asleep.

The feel of the fabric beneath him and the dull mesh of faded colors swimming in his vision tells him that he’s lying in Gil’s office where – oh, _God_.

He clumsily shoots up on the sofa with his back straight and his hair flopping to the side. His eyes grow wide at the sight before him: Gil hunched over on his desk with his hand on his face, groaning in pain. Malcolm quickly makes the connection between his throbbing hand and Gil’s back facing him.

“ _No_ ,” Malcolm whispers, fully turning his body towards Gil. “I – Gil, I’m _so_ sorry.”

His feet are cemented to the floor. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach and circles around his lungs when the air is knocked from him, sitting in shock of what he’s done.

Suddenly, he’s ten again. He’s ten again, lying in the arms of the officer who saved him on the floor of a spare bedroom, staring down at him with a bruise that could be seen under the moonlight. He stares up at the man who cared for him like a son; now, he stands petrified of soiling the one place that felt like home.

Malcolm slowly raises off the sofa and forces his feet to move forward. “Gil?” he nervously calls, inching closer and closer to him. Regret makes him stop halfway. “Gil?”

Seeing Gil’s back still turned has Malcolm spiraling to the worst possible scenarios, wondering just how hard he hit him. His hand trembles at his side and his breath hitches when he feels his eyes mist over from his overwhelming fear. Something compels his hand to reach out, and before he knows it, his fingers are inches away from touching the back of Gil’s shoulder.

As soon as his fingers gently brush the fibers of Gil’s sweater, Gil turns around with his head slightly down wearing an expression Malcolm can’t place. His arm falls to his side as he stares in disbelief.

The small bruise that’s already forming under Gil’s eye is not hard to miss, and it doesn’t help with just how worn out Gil already looks. Its rosy color sticks out like a sore thumb under the faded lights of the precinct, coloring Gil in a shade too dark to be blush and obvious enough to see that he’s been hit.

“I’m so sorry,” Malcolm whispers again, unsure of what to do with himself.

 _He hurt Gil_.

Is Gil angry with him? He should’ve known better. He should’ve known better than to sleep without his restraints, lying carelessly on a couch with nothing to hold him back and nothing to break his fall.

Gil heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “Kid,” he says, watching his mind go a mile a minute. Gil carefully sets his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders and bows his head, looking him square in the eye. “Stop.”

Malcolm instantly rejects his touch with haste, feeling like he doesn’t deserve it now. “No – no, I should go. I shouldn’t be here – I _shouldn’t_ –”

Just as Malcolm tries to slip away from him, Gil gently wraps his arms around him and pulls Malcolm in for a tight hug. Gil cradles the back of Malcolm’s head into his shoulder with enough space to move as well as enough space to bring him in closer. The dark scent of Gil’s cologne swarms Malcolm’s mind with memories too far back to recall, making his throat tighten and his eyes tear up as his heart continues to thud against his chest.

“It’s okay, Bright. I’m okay,” Gil reassures softly into his hair. “I’m okay, and you’re okay.”

Malcolm swallows the lump with a grimace, trying to shake his head in the crook of his neck. “Gil, you’re _hurt_ ,” he pleads, pulling himself away from Gil. He needs to distance himself as far as he can to avoid making the situation even worse. “Let me get you an ice pack, I’m sure there’s something in the freezer I can – oh! Maybe a cold drink from down the street might help?”

“Bright,” Gil calls with mild annoyance, and Malcolm halts his frantic movements. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until I know you’re okay.”

Gil motions with his hand for Malcolm to sit on the sofa but Malcolm stares at it with uncertainty like every other cursed thing in his life. Still, Malcolm walks back over to the sofa and plops down on the fabric. He keeps his head down when Gil comes to sit next to him but he catches a glimpse of Gil’s hands clasped together on his knees out the corner of his eyes.

Silence lingers.

Malcolm’s leg anxiously bounces and his hand trembles at his side while he waits for Gil to say something.

“You were only a kid when this first happened, remember?” He looks over at Malcolm with a steady expression and Malcolm trains his attention to the floor to avoid his eyes. Eventually, he nods.

Gil hums in thought. “Left me with a bruise like this one, and it scared you so much that you panicked and cried in while I held you. Jackie had to take you away to calm you down while I searched for a bag of frozen peas to put on my face. You remember that night?”

The memory plays over in his head like it happened just last night, and it makes the lump in his throat even tighter and his eyes water again.

“You apologized a hundred times over, and no matter what I said, you didn’t believe me when I told you that everything was going to be okay.” Gil straights his back so he can run his fingers over the nape of Malcolm’s neck, gently tugging on his skin in circling motions. “It was an accident, Malcolm. You didn’t mean to.”

Malcolm swallows and turns his head away from Gil to hide his unshed tears.

“Are you hurt?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Am I upset with you?”

He shakes his head again.

“Then why are you being so hard on yourself?”

Gil knows exactly why Malcolm is so embarrassed – he just wishes that Malcolm knew this doesn’t mean whatever his mind thinks it means.

Malcolm’s head falls to his chest and his lip twists under his teeth, letting out a shaky exhale that comes across more frail than he intended it to. The hand circling his neck tugs a bit more on the sensitive skin as a gentle reminder that Gil has him, and he isn’t going to leave him.

“Hey, look at me.”

Malcolm hurriedly wipes his face, slowly lifts his head, and scans the floor before his eyes meet Gil’s. His misty eyes draw a frown from Gil, then as soon as one drops, Gil wipes away the stray tear with his thumb. “No crying in my precinct.”

Malcolm softly chuckles and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he exasperates. “God, I feel like a child.”

Gil rubs the back of his neck some more until he lets go to give him some space, and Malcolm catches himself from moving his head back into the phantom feel of his calming touch. Now that his touch is gone, Malcolm can feel his anxiety flutter through him as it slowly ebbs away but hangs on the edge of his mind.

He forces himself to look at Gil’s face.

“How do you feel?” Malcolm nervously asks.

“Fine,” Gil says, gently touching the area around his cheek. “Nothing an ice pack can’t fix.”

Malcolm’s head falls to the side like he’s doesn’t believe him. It’s going to take a mountain for Malcolm to believe him, so Gil doesn’t try to convince him otherwise. All he can do is be there for him when he needs it and remind Malcolm that he’s not a monster over and over again until his face turns blue.

While in a daze, Gil lightly pats Malcolm’s leg. “Come on,” Gil says, getting up from the sofa. “I’ve got some paperwork to get through and the AC is driving me nuts. I could really use some company.” Gil leans up against his desk, waiting.

While there’s nothing subtle about Gil’s attempt to take Malcolm’s mind off of the situation, guilt still lingers, almost cementing him to the sofa. However, sitting down isn’t helping him because with Gil waiting on him, it only makes it worse if he makes him wait. Reluctantly, Malcolm curtly nods, stands up from the sofa, and opens the office door to get to his desk.

He walks back in seconds later with a few files in hand and pen.

“Can you close the door behind you, please?” Gil asks, moving around his desk to sit in his chair. The door closes with a soft click and Malcolm decides to take the chair in front of Gil, wearily eyeing the couch. Gil slides his glasses back on and picks up his pen while watching Malcolm get comfortable in his chair, crossing his legs with a file sitting on top.

When Malcolm sits up, he catches Gil staring. “What?” he asks with a nervous smile.

Gil simply shrugs and turns his attention towards his work, a small smile curling on his lips. “Nothing.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes like Gil can see him, and when he doesn’t look up from his desk, Malcolm can’t help but duck his head and smile.

Just like that, they sit under the cracking sound of the vents and the restless chatter of the bullpen, enjoying the comfortable silence of Gil’s office. They work through the night without much conversation. Gil steals a glance from Malcolm to check on him, and thankfully, he seems to be completely absorbed in whatever case he’s working on. Gil returns to his pile satisfied.

A notification pops up on Gil’s screen and his eyes wander over to the time. Somehow by checking the time, his body aches and cramps up when he realizes how late it is. He sets his pen down, places his glasses to the side, and rubs his eyes with his fingers while he tries to stifle a yawn. Malcolm continues to sift through his case file.

“Alright, kid. It’s late,” he announces, standing up to stretch his arms.

His head perks up from his lap and he instantly checks his watch for the time. “Oh,” he sighs, uncrossing his legs. “I guess it is.”

“I’ll take you home.” Gil rearranges his files in an order that’ll save him time in the morning and twists his back before he walks to pick up his coat.

“You don’t have to.”

“Too late.” Once his coat’s on, Gil grabs his keys and wallet from a drawer, then gestures his hand forward. “Lead the way.”

Malcolm sighs in defeat and starts through the door, drifting so he can put his files away in his desk. Gil snatches something else off of his desk before he shuts the lights off and locks the door behind him. He waits for Malcolm by the entrance of the precinct with his hands stuffed in his pockets, fingers twirling around a plastic wrapper.

A couple of minutes pass, and Malcolm emerges from the hallway with his own coat, mirroring Gil with his hands tucked away from the cold.

“Ready?”

Malcolm nods, arms close to his body to keep himself warm.

Gil pauses. He takes his hand out to smooth over the nape of Malcolm’s neck again and gently pulls him toward his side. He leans into Gil’s coat like a cushion, and he sighs in contempt. Gil nudges his hand with something, and when he looks down, Malcolm finds a piece of green hard candy sitting in the palm of his hand.

A grin crosses his face. A token, a peace offering that has mended several bridges in the past. A promise that told him everything is going to be okay. Gil looks down at Malcolm, gently massaging his skin, giving Malcolm time to let the warmth spread in the frigid weather flooding in through the cracks.

“Thank you,” he quietly says, closing his hand around it.

Gil gently tugs at his neck before he lets go and reaches for the door. “Let’s get you home.”

The door pushes open and they cross the threshold together into the cold night with nothing left unsaid. Malcolm sheds the guilt and trades it for a piece of comfort in the front seat of Gil’s car and the softness of his leather seats. Here, he can’t hurt anyone.

Here, Gil will keep him safe.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @wonder-boy. Thanks for reading!


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